Motherhood..."That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger..." (umm...right?!)

Friday, 19 May 2017

"Kissy-Kat, Kissy-Kat, Where Have You Been?"

Two things of note happened this past week: I face planted onto wet pavement in my slippery Converse during the school run, emerging bloody, rips in my new Current Elliott jeans and humiliated beyond belief. Secondly, we acquired a pet.

We are now proud cat owners of a 12 week old Tabby(?) whose name we have typically spent the past week vehemently arguing about ('Kismet' vs 'Genghis'). To some, this news would be no big deal, but as a self-confessed 'dog person' and up until now, life-long 'cat despiser' (sorry, but to me, cats have always been a bit like Zara - nice but no Prada.) They can't be taught tricks, aren't any impediment whatsoever to a potential burglar, and are merely fur-shedding, stand-offish creatures who slink around arrogantly, giving back very little value in the way of affection. Or so I thought...

Meet "Kissy-Kat", a feline with a penchant for french-kissing (should one accidentally leave ones mouth ajar during the thrice daily minimum make-out session he requires. "Kissy Kat" loves nothing more than climbing up onto your chest, a bit of brief foreplay nuzzling around the chin area, then straight into a marathon session of langorous licking: eyelids, nose, lips, then back again, ad infinitum, until your face is as clean as a whistle and there remains not even a hint of your former eye makeup. This can literally can go on for hours, or until the smell of cat food breath and stray cat hairs make you want to choke...but much like a hot guy with bad B.O., he's cute so you let him get away with it.

I blame one of our oldest and best friends, 'That in the Hat'. Not unlike "The Cat In The Hat" he's prone to turning up randomly, unexpectedly, turning your world upside down for a few days (in the most delightful way of course), and then suddenly disappearing when there is no more havoc to be wreaked. Until the next time of course. Ergo a Friday night of much good natured lively chat, excessive wine consumption, and a mere few hours sleep before an 7:30 am wake-up to watch Egg play in an important school cricket match a fair distance away.

This would all have been fine except for the fact that upon waking I had shot back a triple shot cappuccino like it was nothing, resulting in severe insomnia and subsequent sleep envy once the husband had crawled back into bed after having fortuitously ascertained that Egg could catch an early ride with some other poor soul.

Queue a lovely Saturday morning snuggle in bed with the middle son, absentmindedly googling Rescue Home cats and dogs, resulting in this picture randomly popping up on screen:

Dumpie and I look at each other. We are so alike.

"I think I just found our cat," I said with wonderment.

"Yeah, he's the one. Let's buy it."

"Should we ask Dada?"

(We glance in the direction of the snoring hunk of man meat to our left. No response, even after a firm elbowing to the ribs.)

"I don't want to pay that much money though. What if I offer her less and if she takes it we just go for it."

"Yeah, do it," Dumps agreed.

So I did. The random stranger accepted my offer, we agreed to collect the 12 week old kitty later that day, then immediately began rousing the husband to share the good news, shoving the 'kitty porn' screen grab into his sleeping face, eventually extracting a vaguely positive-in-nature grunt which we decisively concurred to be a firm 'yes'.

Skipping over mundane details, having eventually garnered a resigned "Whatever" from the husband once fully awake, a few hours later found us all rattling through London in our aged camper van, hungover friend in back with our sqaubbling offspring, headed off to watch our son play cricket - and buy a kitty.

Stumbling across the cricket grounds, looking none too impressive (ie. feeling 'last scene in Breakfast Club' but coming off like pilot episode of 'Shameless') I was struck with a sudden burst of paranoia. I mean, if we were going to acquire a family pet for the next fifteen odd years, surely a random google search resulting in the impulsive online purchase of a brokered discount kitty from some woman with questionable communication skills, after a night of excess and barely any sleep, was not ideal?

Frantically I googled, coming upon an even younger, maybe cuter(??) tiny ball of black fluff, only 8 weeks old, available immediately and fortuitously just around the corner from Egg's school.

"What do you think of this one?" I asked the husband, shoving my phone in his face.

"What? I thought you said the other one was 'the one'? He glared at me.

"I know, but this one is even younger and I think I like the shape of the face more and is it cuter? Is it? I can't tell. Also I think it would suit our house more...you know? What do you think?"

Around this point the husband walked off, clearly disgusted, throwing a pissed off scowl my way, turning his attention once more to the game. I studied the contrasting pics on my phone for some minutes before realising that there was only one thing for it: I had to 'phone a friend.' In this case that meant sending said pics to a rather random group of family and friends to illicit their opinion. The feedback was mixed. I decided that we simply had to see both kittens and hoped that we would 'just know.'

An hour or so later found the lot of us charging into a strangers' tiny kitchen, surveying a sorry lot of feline specimens.

"Which one you here for then?" the woman asked.

"Umm...the black one?" I offered.

Immediately, a tiny dark fur ball shot past my legs and hid behind a tired old washing machine. No amount of cajoling would force it out, and after several minutes of awkwardness, the rain beating down relentlessly outside, I started to feel like we should just get the heck out of there, go home to bed and re-think the whole thing. However just then the angry little fur ball was captured trying to escape upstairs by a sullen towel clad teenage girl who stoned-faced, held it out to me. Clawing my All Saints jumper, staring angrily out of slitty yellow-tinged eyes, I quickly shoved it at the husband.

"Here, you hold it. You love cats" I mumbled, wanting now definitely to leave and wondering how I could do it without looking like a fickle freak (I had sounded so sure on the phone in order to get her to agree to an immediate visit).

Somehow I managed to get us out of there by spouting some nonsense about a family chat being needed at a nearby imaginary pub before most likely coming back to acquire the evil kitty for a sum. She bought it, the kids bought it, and even the husband seemed to.

"Urgh...no way," I declared as we buckled ourselves back up in the van. The family surveyed me with confusion. Apparently they had not deemed this creature as horrid as I had, and were as a group, terribly annoyed. Whatever.

At this point our sleep-deprived and hungover houseguest began to seriously lose it in the back seat. We proceeded to lurch and halt our way through vile London weekend traffic across town for the next forty-five minutes or so, until he categorically demanded to be let out at the next pub and be collected later. We obliged, eventually making our way to the home of a young single mum with a tiny daughter living in a small council flat near the river. Once again we trundled inside en masse, but this time instead of encountering a demon fur ball I looked down to discover a creature not unlike 'Gizmo' from 'The Gremlins'.

Several cuddles later, after much stroking, and that face, that adorable little face, I instructed the husband to hand over the money in his wallet and we swiftly departed clutching our newest family member and a shopping bag full of cat accessories. I was pleased...very pleased. Mission accomplished. Why on earth did I ever doubt my initial instincts? I felt smug, not unlike the time I marched into a designer sample sale emerging shortly thereafter with the prize steal of the century.

So there you have it. We have a cat. We are proper, official cat owners. Puzzlingly, five days in, the monsters seem rather nonplussed with the new arrival. They are treating it like a Christmas toy: momentarily ecstatic, a quick play, slightly less enthusiastic the next play in, then gently pushing it to one side whilst picking back up their respective devices and losing all interest.

The husband has taken to our new little friend with the same delight as the arrival of our third son. He graciously concedes that it was a fortuitous move on my part, has swiftly grown rather fond of the delightful little mogwai, and is utterly charmed by the fact that the kitten has chosen as his new comfort place/sleep zone, his ramshackle bicycle collection in the corner of the basement.

As for me, I feel like I just ticked that parental 'expose children to pet' box, and as a bonus, appear to have been gifted with an affectionate feline that loves cuddles and kisses. Perfect. Love without the hardcore responsibility of a dog. But most of all I love that face, that adorable little face. Who knew hey?

(Dislaimer: Truth be told, I got the bloody cat simply to put an end to the periodic mouse problem we appear to have in this old house of ours. Since his arrival there has been no sign of them, and the resulting peace of mind has been so worth it. Given that I hate bad smells, need more responsibility like a hole in the head, and can't bear cat hair getting onto my furniture or beloved clothes - PLUS have a sister whom we adore who happens to be wildly allergic to cats - is proof of how desperate I was for some vermin-related piece of mind. Now, I just have to continue to sell myself on the idea, and as the husband knows, being criminally cute helps...it helps a lot.)

Post a Comment

SUBSCRIBE to www.moaningmum.com

Search This Blog

ABOUT ME...

I am a well-intentioned but frequently disillusioned wife and mother, cathartically blogging about the daily frustrations of raising three(!) boys (Egg 12, Dumpie 10, and Squitty 'the baby' 5...) whilst trying to forge a career in music.
As a frustrated artist, domestic slave, and hardcore fashionista , life is a constant struggle of trying not to lose the plot whilst keeping a sense of self.
Throw in a husband who also refuses to "grow up", wonderfully dysfunctional family and friends, and you get a shambolic household that shouldn't work - but somehow does.
These domestic adventures and random observations of the world at large (fueled in part by excessive daily intake of chocolate and caffeine) are contained herein. Welcome to my world...